Regrets
by DirgeOfDecember
Summary: If anything could make him regret becoming human, this was it.  Dean/Castiel


**Title: **Regrets

**Author:** DirgeOfDecember (LJ, FF) / naomiichiru (dA)

**Rating:** T/PG-13

**Genre:** Tragedy/Angst

**Pairing/Characters:** Dean/Cas

**Spoilers:** Generally none I _think_; if you know who Cas is, then you oughta be just fine. (There IS a minor reference to a quote used in 6x17, but it's nothing absolutely spoiler-y, I don't believe.)

**Warnings:** Angst. Character death. Some swearing. Kind of non-descript mentions of injuries. Terrible use of random quotes. Purposefully abrupt ending.

**Word Count:** 1,503 without the quotations

**Author's Notes:** This is unbeta'd, so any mistakes you catch are mine. Just a forewarning, as I finished writing this story at...about five in the morning, and I am dead tired. But I had to get it done, as it felt like it was going to eat me alive after being on in my Unfinished One-shots folder for nearly two months. Yes, this is meant to be kind of weird in style. Just how I roll, kiddies. (Also, what the Hell is with my inability to think of titles that aren't just one word? Good lord.)**  
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**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural. If I did, I wouldn't be dreading the premier of season 7, because the shitstorm in season 6 wouldn't have happened, and Dean and Cas would have gotten their heads outta their asses sooner.

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><p><em>"In hours of bliss we oft have met,<br>They could not always last;  
>And though the present I regret,<br>I am grateful for the past."  
><em>- William Congreve

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><p>It's been three years now, since Castiel, Angel of the Lord, became <em>Cas, Dean's best friend<em> for good. Forwent his freedom to fly for his freedom to _live_ instead of merely exist; forwent his immortal millennia to embrace a scant sixty more years of a heartbeat if he was lucky enough to see this body now his to its possible century milestone.

He shed his wings for the backseat of a '67 Chevy Impala; shed his Grace for breath, for emotions (_real_ emotions and not the shadows of what he'd felt before), for love. He'd even come to shed his three piece suit for t-shirts in the summer, long sleeved button-downs or hoodies in the cooler months, jeans and boots or sneakers no matter what the season. The trenchcoat stayed, though—it had grown to be a part of who he was, after all. The Angel in a dirty trenchcoat. It helped that Dean seemed to want him to keep it.

Castiel knew the risks, knew what came with this fragile little life he clings to with all the desperation in the world, but he honestly had come to believe that there would be nothing that could make him regret ever having traded away his Grace for humanity.

He was happy. It had taken time to get used to the roaring silence that filled the space where the voices of his siblings, of the Planet, had once been, to replace it with the sounds of _life_ as humans heard it. Of a heartbeat beneath his own ribcage and inside the chest he often laid his head upon at night (and sometimes during the day, when Dean would declare it a Lazy Day and they stayed in bed until they absolutely needed to leave it, or when they decided to go right back to bed at some point. One of the two). Of Dean's only-sometimes snoring. Of playful brotherly banter and gruff sarcasm. Of whispered words and secret laughter behind closed doors, and purrs of contentment whenever Cas would work the knots out of the elder Winchester's shoulders and back; of Dean humming to his favorite Led Zeppelin songs as he went about his day and Sam bellowing out lyrics to his "sappy, girly, emo" pop music while showering in the very early morning hours because he knew it annoyed the ever-living Hell out of his brother. Of the Impala's engine, the quiet buzz of the roads, and the crickets in the background as the three gazed at the stars in the middle of nowhere.

Getting used to emotions as humans felt them was another trial. Meeting Dean brought everything he, as an Angel, was taught to suppress out to breach the surface. At first he tried to ignore them, tried to push them down, fearing opening the doors to every doubt he'd begun to develop in fear he'd never be able to close them again, but instead he only pushed himself further into the gravitational pull wrapping around the Everything that was Dean Winchester. They grew more powerful, and Castiel struggled to control them before they could overwhelm him, never once thinking they could ever become even more all-encompassing.

Then he stripped himself of his Grace, of that otherworldly strength over himself, and it was so much _worse_, because he couldn't control everything he felt this time. Dean walked him through it all, though, and Sam, too, sometimes. It got easier, dealing with the negatives, with his Hunter of all people ditching his issues of personal space and physical affection to pretty much anyone, slipping into the ex-Angel's bed whenever a nightmare or mental shitstorm started up. Dean would hold him until whatever it was passed, and would hold him for a while after. And somewhere along the line, it became _something_. Something a lot like love. Dean still loved Cas like family, but a wholly different kind of family. No longer like a brother, not anymore. And as such, Sam became more of a little brother to him, instead of just a friend, and Bobby even told Cas he was officially like a third son. He was no longer an Honorary Winchester; it was _official_—about as official as it could be. _"Castiel Winchester. __**Damn**__, that has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Christ, Cas, it's like you were always meant to be a Winchester."_

He was loved, and safe, and _happy_ with this new life of his.

And yet, here he is, staring up into the thunder clouded darkness above him that was just barely visible through the trees, wondering where in the Hell he'd ever gone wrong in all of this and wishing, for one fucking second, that he still had a spark, something to reignite breath that had long stuttered out. _Something_ to bring back the shine in the once verdant eyes he'd come to love so much.

Those eyes had given him _hope_. Faith. A Faith he'd never had in anyone, his Father included.

But now, the only one left gave him despair as it, too, stared up unseeingly at the skies above them, the life that used to burn within them snuffed out like a candle's flame.

"Dean..."

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><p><em>"Regrets for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that are inconsolable."<em>

- Sydney Smith

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><p><em>There had been a <em>_**third**__ werewolf that neither the brothers nor the former Angel had been aware of._

_Dean and Castiel were helping a groggy, barely-conscious Sam into the Impala when the angry snarl had sounded from the treeline behind them. It sounded injured, maybe having been hurt by a stray bullet, or even having been injured before the trio arrived. And Dean, that stupid, __**stupid**__ man, had told Cas to 'Stay put. I don't want you leaving Sammy alone, got it?', double-checked the silver rounds in his pistol, and ran off towards the sound._

_And Castiel, damn himself, had stayed. He leaned against the Impala, his own gun ready for anything, and waited._

_There had been gunshots, growling, and the sounds of a scuffle...and then nothing._

_Nothing was enough to cause Castiel to panic. Although he couldn't tell you how long it took him to find Dean sprawled out and bloodied amongst the trees, he could tell you that he'd held on to his Hunter for precisely two minutes and twenty-seven point zero three seconds. Long enough to beg God to save Dean Winchester, to spare his life because dammit, of anyone, the brothers deserved to be happy. And Dean had given so much, had done __**so much**__, and wasn't that enough?_

_Did he—did Cas—do something wrong? Something so wrong that either of them deserved __**this**__? Because, God, was Castiel sorry, if that was the case._

_Sorry that he'd let go of his Grace. Because if he still had it, Dean wouldn't be bleeding out of the hellacious hole in his __**face**__, where the right eye had been, or out of the gashes in his throat and chest. If he had his Grace, Dean wouldn't be spluttering and coughing and choking up blood, trying to form the words he'd never officially told Cas._

_That he loved him. That he was glad for everything. Glad that Castiel had come into his life, even if it had been under supremely shitty circumstances._

_Maybe even a "Chick-flick moment's over. Tell anyone I said that, and I will __**end**__ you." he never __**really **__meant, before he stole a kiss._

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><p><em>"Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves: regret for the past, and fear for the future."<em>

- Fulton Oursler

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><p>If he'd still had his Grace, Dean Winchester's heart would not have stopped tonight, twenty-six minutes and forty-four seconds after two in the morning.<p>

Sammy would not have to be man-handling him away from the lifeless body of the man he'd Raised and subsequently Fell for five years and five days ago, when the youngest Winchester should still be mostly unconscious in the Impala. Neither of them would have to go through life without Dean. Neither of them would have to worry about a Salt And Burn, because this time, _Dean Winchester was not coming back_.

Castiel would never have to wonder, or worry, over the next several minutes if God would forgive him for following his beloved into death, if he was even _allowed_ in Heaven, where he knew for absolute certain Dean would be going as a reward for everything he'd done to save the _world_ despite all of the odds against him, just as his brother would despite the Demon blood. But he knows he _can't_ follow, because Dean would likely never forgive _him_ if he left Sam alone to mourn. _'Someone needs to watch out for him. He's a giant Sasquatch on the outside, but he's still an even bigger girl on the inside,'_ Dean would say. His way of saying that he cares about his baby brother, and that he worries how Sam would get along _after_.

And he certainly wouldn't be crying and screaming blasphemies into the Heavens as the flames lick higher and higher, because _fuck_ it hurts so much, how much he wants to die. So badly. He wants to leap onto the funeral pyre Sam has painstakingly built, and burn away, too.


End file.
